


I Could Make Your Whole World Sweet

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, BDSM, Collars, Corporal Punishment, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has never wanted anyone as much as he has wanted John Watson. The problem? Sherlock is a Dom... and so is John. Or at least, that's what the doctor wants everyone to think. Can they develop a relationship despite the dynamic mismatch? And can they handle the consequences in their everyday lives? Sherlock/John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Could Make Your Whole World Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> The following fic is a BDSM AU, meaning in the universe in which it is set, everyone is dynamic (either sub, dom, or switch) and that changes the way society functions. Included explicit sex and corporal punishment.

Sherlock Holmes’ first response upon sighting John Watson was one of overwhelming arousal. Sherlock had, on occasion, felt instantaneous interest, but something on this level was completely unprecedented.

A part of his massive intellect had already recognized that Stamford had brought him a potential flatmate. The rest of his brain was too absorbed with conjuring images of the short, sand-haired stranger stripped to the waist, legs spread wide, hands tied above his head. His back would arch with every expert strike of Sherlock’s riding crop, throwing back his head as he groaned with pain and desire.

Sherlock forced himself out of his musings. He had a case – there would be time for indulgence later.

“A bit different from my day,” announced a rugged tenor, rich with nuance and emotion. Sherlock briefly mused on its exact cadence during orgasm before he caught himself.

If he was going to remain fixated, he might as well put his attention to more practical use. Sherlock took the one phrase the man had uttered and extrapolated – doctor, likely a school friend Stamford had run into during his break for lunch. Judging by his tread, he had a heavy limp, yet he hadn’t asked for a chair upon entrance and his breathing indicated he wasn’t currently in any pain. Psychosomatic, then?

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” Sherlock asked, chastising himself mentally. The work was what was important. The work was what he _needed_ to focus on. The potential flat-mate could wait.

The sub muttered and excuse about having left it in his coat without a trace of apology. He didn’t want to lend the detective his phone, but Mike was uncomfortable with telling the dom as much. Sherlock had to fight very hard not to become irritated. Social dynamic convention could be so _dull_.

“Uh, here. Use mine,” the tenor said, reaching into his pocket before holding the mobile out before him, almost as if it was a peace offering.

Sherlock’s steps toward the doctor were the lithe, lethal ones of a predator on the prowl.

“An old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike remarked from his position on the sidelines.

Sherlock’s eyes darted over the man and he allowed himself a small internal sigh of disappointment. Hair-cut and bearing said military. Statistics and his refusal to back down from Sherlock’s stare said Dom. A pity.

When as Sherlock reached forward to retrieve the phone, Watson’s wrist was exposed. No tan line above it – Afghanistan or Iraq. No bracelet – while his search for accommodations had implied it, this confirmed for Sherlock that the man was single.

Sherlock inquired about his posting, nodding with small satisfaction when the man responded.

“I play the violin. I rarely gag my subs and tend to enjoying denying them orgasm and have a fairly large sadistic streak – they are, invariably, rather loud. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other.”

Potential flat-mates _should_ know the worst about each other, but Sherlock was more concerned with the man’s reaction. If he wanted a carpet to walk on, he would have simply collared himself a wealthy sub. He had no shortage of offers.

Sherlock was about to stroll out to collect his riding crop, feeling highly disappointed, when the doctor finally spoke.

“The violin is only an issue if you play badly. Silence is fantastic, and I won’t fuss about what happens during scenes between you and a sub if you don’t either,” There was a pause while the doctor waited for a response. Receiving none, he barreled on. “Is that it then? We’ve only just met and we’re going to look at a flat?”

“Problem?”

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your _name_.”

Sherlock was unable to contain a small grin. John hadn’t rolled over. He hadn’t acquiesced. He went so far as to throw the proverbial gauntlet, as it were. Excellent.

Sherlock lays down all he has been able to gather about the man, every fact, every shameful secret, watching his expression harden with each word. Good.

Sherlock throws in a wink and a comment about his riding crop before he exits just so he can enjoy the look on the other Dom’s face before he sweeps out dramatically.

He went directly to a bar he occasionally frequented between cases. He had solved Lestrade’s crime, now it was time to attend to the appetites meeting the doctor had invoked so strongly. The proprietor of the establishment was surprised to see him – Sherlock typically only attended to his physical needs twice a month, and even then he alternated between five establishments. He had been here not four weeks ago, and he wasn’t due back for another month and a half.

Ignoring the majority of the occupants of the bar, Sherlock ensconced himself in a secluded booth where he could cast a critical eye over his fellow patrons. Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted, and he was more than willing to wait for it.

Sherlock sat in the shadows, watching and waiting. It took longer than he would have liked, but his patience was eventually rewarded. The man who walked up to the bar at around seven appeared to have been worth the wait. Young, blond, well-muscled. Posture indicated he was a submissive. The way he scraped his fingernail across the sensitive shell of his ear when uncomfortable in an effort to calm himself indicated at least slight masochistic tendencies and his careful yet subtle scanning of the room indicated he was looking to provide entertainment.

Sherlock stood, tugging on his gloves. He crossed the pub, his spine straight and his stride predatory. He stopped behind the sub in question, bringing a leather clad hand to rest at the small of the other man’s back.

“Tell me your name,” Sherlock ordered, infusing his tone with the authority that being a Dom gave him.

“Tyler,” the man exhaled unsteadily.

“If you are amenable,” Sherlock said, taking a small step forward to press himself against the sub’s back. “I would appreciate your companionship tonight, Tyler.”

Sherlock let a gloved thumb stroke across the back of Tyler’s neck, smiling as the submissive trembled in response.

“Your answer, Tyler?” Sherlock asked, still stroking.

“ _Yes._ ”

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Sherlock left Tyler’s flat four hours later, feeling satiated but unsatisfied. The desire was still there, still thrumming though his veins, only slightly mollified. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have found his encounter with Tyler gratifying. Today, he felt only discontentment.

Sherlock stalking through the streets of London, connecting with his homeless network and noting the new traffic patterns and construction, all the while attempting to puzzle out this sudden change in behavior. Several hours later, he was no closer to his answer, though his meeting with Dr. Watson was fast encroaching.

At the conclusion of the day, carton full of Chinese in his lap and smile plastered on his face, Sherlock has his answer. Despite the fact that the man is a Dom, Sherlock is attracted to him. More so than he has been to _anyone_ in his entire thirty-five years. If the situation had occurred with any other Dom, Sherlock would have asked for permission to top him. Affairs between Doms happen, but they are, with no exceptions, brief. After tonight, Sherlock knows he cannot risk the company of the one man in London who seems capable of tolerating him, no, liking him, for one night of indulgence.

So he buries his desires and brings home short, stocky, blonde, blue-eyed male subs on a thrice-weekly basis between cases. That seems to work, until Sarah.

Sarah is a beautiful women who proved herself to marginally less incompetent than the majority of the idiot population. She is tolerant, asks all the right questions, and Sherlock loathes her more than he does Anderson.

He cannot stand the sight of her and John together. He cannot stand the _thought_ of her and John together. She should not be able to touch Sherlock’s doctor like that, in ways the detective only permits himself to dream about, and even then they are strictly regulated. Every touch he sees the two exchange in front of him makes his blood boil, and the signs of their intimacy send him into fits of rage he had not experienced since cocaine withdrawal.

Sherlock does everything he can to drive the woman away, but nothing seems to work. He is about ready to drive himself insane until one day John comes homes without the tell-tale traces of lipstick on his shirt.

“She wanted a collar. I said I wasn’t ready for that. She told me in that case, we were better off as colleagues,” John shrugged when Sherlock asked. “It just…it wasn’t what I needed, you know?”

“She is an utter moron,” Sherlock declares. It is the truth – anyone who had any piece of John would be foolish to relinquish it without a fight.

Sherlock ups sex to four times a week, feeling as if he might die to have what he wants so close yet not be able to touch it.

Until the night on the Tilly Briggs, when everything changes.

John had been out of sorts when the police had been taken statements. Sherlock couldn’t fathom why. Nothing serious had happened. They had been restrained for a brief period but John had been through much worse.

Eventually, Sherlock was forced to ask what was wrong.

“Nothing. I’ll be fine in a minute. Just a bit of sub-drop.”

Sherlock began nodding before his brain process what it is he has heard. “Sub-drop?” he asks, convinced he misheard.

“It’s been awhile since I was tied up when I wasn’t concussed so badly I couldn’t think,” John smirked up at him. “One of the dangers of being a switch, I guess.”

Sherlock simply stared at him, completely flabbergasted. “A switch?”

“Yeah,” he studied Sherlock face carefully before his eyes light with understanding. Then he bursts out laughing. “You had no idea, did you? I thought you’d deduced it ages ago and figured it wasn’t worth mentioning.”

Sherlock started to bristle before John waves him down. “You have to understand. Pulling one over on you? Maybe twice in a year. Just let me enjoy it, yeah?”

Sherlock managed to keep himself under control in the cab, if just barely. Walking in the door of 221B he observed John closely, ensuring all signs of the sub-drop he had been experiencing before were gone. Then he pinned John to the wall at the entryway.

“Do you have any concept of what it is I have been suffering? _Four months_ , John. Four months dreaming about you writhing underneath me. Four months visualizing what you would look like if I stripped you naked, picturing the marks on your wrists from where I tied you down, imagining the smack of my riding crop against your skin, fantasizing about the noises you would make when I fucked you so hard and long you couldn’t even _move_. Four months trying to hide the fact that I was achingly hard, four months fighting to keep myself under control because I was convinced you were a Dom and was unwilling to sacrifice what little of you I had.”

Sherlock bit down on John’s neck, _hard_ , sucking until he was sure he would leave a visible mark. John groaned, tilting his head to side and baring his throat to Sherlock’s ministrations.

“And then tonight. Tonight I find out you’re a fucking _switch_ ,” Sherlock growled, thrusting on of his knees in between John’s thighs.

“Oh _God_ ” John moaned, his voice shaky and filled with need.

“I don’t think you understand John. I don’t think you can. I think I have to _show_ you,” Sherlock hissed, transferring John’s wrists to his left hand, snaking his right under John’s shirt before pinching his nipple between his thumb and index finger, rolling the sensitive flesh between his gloved fingers. “Do you want that, John? Do you want me to show you?”

Sherlock was hard, painfully so. But he wasn’t the only one. John was panting, his erection pressing against Sherlock’s thigh, the man rocking back and forth to generate more friction. All the physical signs were clear, but Sherlock wouldn’t take it a step further until he had verbal consent, no matter how difficult it was to keep himself in check.

“Yes. Oh _God_ , yes.”

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Sherlock stood at the foot of his bed, look at the sight before him hardly daring to believe his eyes. There was John Watson, stripped to the waist and bound by his wrists to Sherlock’s headboard. His cock was straining against his trousers and his entire body was flushed pale pink with desire. His lips were swollen and Sherlock knew that the mark he had left on John’s neck would not fade for at least a week.

Sherlock adjusted the grip he had on his riding crop, held carefully in gloved fingers behind his back as he paced back and forth at the edge of the bed. He took a deep breath, calming himself down. He would enjoy this. He would savor it. He had waited too long to waste this opportunity on a quick, clumsy fuck. _Mine. Perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not in six hours, but for now you are MINE_.

“Tell me your safe word,” he ordered, channeling every desire, every fantasy he’d ever had about the man into his tone.

“Don’t have one,” John muttered, staring up at the ceiling.

Sherlock froze mid-stride, looking down at John with consternation. How could the man not have a safe word? Every sub… But John hadn’t subbed in over five years according to the data Sherlock had accumulated. Perhaps longer. It was really only to be expected.

“Your safe word is Norbury. Repeat it for me,”

“Norbury,” John responded.

“Good. Now, any masochistic tendencies?”

“Yeah. I’d say a little higher than normal on the scale. No blood kinks though. Too much time watching it spilling out of people to find it exciting.”

“You are not to speak again without permission. You may beg and you may scream, but only if it is sincere. Not because you think I desire it. I will know the difference and you will be punished for it. If you use your safeword at any point, I will stop and release you immediately. We will discuss your concerns before deciding on any further courses of action. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” John responded, staring up at Sherlock with excited eyes.

“Very well.  We will begin.  You, John Watson,” Sherlock said, gesturing at the doctor with his crop, “are a tease.  The greatest I have encountered in all my years.  A tease of the worst variety – you have no idea the effect you have on those around you,” the detective remarked as he brushed the loop of the crop gently along John’s jaw.

“Dimmock, for example, would gladly castrate himself if he thought it would get him a chance at your collar.  Lestrade would go against his dynamic and submit to you without a second thought.  He plans on offering the next time he sees you, if I am not mistaken.”

John opened his mouth and Sherlock struck him across the cheek.  A light rap – the mark wouldn’t show for more than five minutes.

“I did not give you permission to speak,” Sherlock chided.

“You touched Sarah exactly 14 times in my presence.  One strike with the crop for each of those touches.  Eight times you touched Lestrade or he touched you, and Dimmock made contact with you twice.  I will use a flogger for those.  Four weeks of ignorance and driving me mad.  Four hours without orgasm to pay for your lack of awareness.”

A shudder ran through John’s frame and his breathing became shallower.  Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk.

“We’ll start with the riding crop,” Sherlock said, adjusting his grip through the leather of his gloves.

The sound of the first strike of the crop coupled with John’s wordless grunt of pain and pleasure sent a rush of blood directly to Sherlock’s groin.  He created a crisscrossing pattern again the tan skin of John’s chest, keeping the timing of his strokes deliberately irregular so the doctor could not predict where and when the next blow would fall.

At the end of the allocated fourteen strikes, Sherlock found himself panting heavily, his trousers uncomfortably tight and his pants damp with the excessive precum leaking from his cock.

John had his head thrown back into the mattress, neck arched and hands tightly gripping the ropes binding him to the headboard.  His pupils were blown wide and his hips would give the occasional jerk as he sought friction.

Sherlock placed the crop on the bed beside John as he straddled the doctor, pressing one gloved hand to John’s carotid artery, counting the throb of John’s pulse against his fingers to insure the doctor was still in good health.

“Good,” Sherlock muttered, running his hands down the doctor’s chest, tracing the panes of his chest as John groaned in pleasure, eyelids fluttering shut.  “Very good,” he commented before running his tongue along the oversensitive lines that crossed John’s skin.

The doctor tasted of sweat, tea, the generic body wash he used, and something Sherlock has begun to consider distinctly John.  He could not get enough.  Sherlock painted John’s entire chest with his saliva, nipping lightly and the doctor’s nipples and paying special attention to the scar at John’s shoulder.

"Fuck," John whispered, arching his back and gripping the restraints so tight his skin turned white.  "Oh, <i>fuck</i>."

"Eventually," Sherlock conceded, climbing off the doctor and making his way to the chest in the corner of his room where he kept his tools.  "In two or so hours."

He pulled out his flogger (leather, thirteen tresses) and a leather cock-ring before returning to the bed.  Sherlock divested John of his trousers and pants with quick, economical movements designed to provide as little stimulation as possible.  He closed the ring around John's cock before stepping back to admire his work.

"Comfortable?" Sherlock checked, running his fingers along John's cock with the slightest pressure he could manage.

John let out a short, breathless huff of laughter.  "Nothing is unpleasant, if that's what you meant, but I am far from comfortable."

"Good," Sherlock declared before bending his head and nipping at the soft flesh at John's thighs.  He applied suction and didn't stop until he was certain he had left a mark.  He smirked at the doctor's consequent curse and the spasm that ran the length of his body.

Sherlock untied the doctor with deft hands.  "Off the bed, and brace yourself against the baseboard.  You will regret it if you attempt to touch yourself."

As John did as he was ordered, Sherlock made his way over to his bedside table.  He pulled out the lubricant and condoms and, after some thought, grabbed another cock-ring.  Tossing the items onto the bed next to John's head, Sherlock quickly stripped himself before grabbing the flogger and positioning himself behind John.

"I want you to count these aloud," Sherlock ordered, flicking the flogger once through the air to get a sense of the motion.  "If you miss a number, we will start over.  Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," John panted out.

Sherlock spaced the strokes out unevenly again, once going as long as five minutes without striking the doctor.  John didn't miss a single number, though his count became more audible as time went on.

"Ten!" he shouted at last, arching into the final blow.

"Well done," Sherlock commented, rubbing his hands softly over John's red and tender skin.  "Just a bit longer, alright?"

John nodded, letting his head hang between his shoulders.

Sherlock lubed his fingers carefully before pressing into John without any warning, easing his way past the tight, tense muscles of his sphincter.  "Relax," Sherlock ordered, rubbing his free hand soothingly across the doctor's back.

John whimpered, but did his best to comply.  Sherlock added another finger, feeling the muscles stretch to accommodate him.  Feeling adventurous, he added a third. Once all three fingers were inserted, he sought out John's prostate, enjoying the vociferous curse the doctor let out when he found it.

"I think you're ready for me now, " Sherlock whispered against John's neck, keeping up the rhythm of his finger while using his free hand to prepare himself.

"God, yes," John moaned.  "Please."

Sherlock fucked the doctor steadily for the twenty minutes, though it felt like far longer.  The sun was beginning to peak it way though the curtains when Sherlock finally lost the little self-control he had left.  He pulled out, John's groan of protest doing nothing to help him stay in control.  Sherlock turned the doctor around, pushing him down onto the mattress before removing both cock-rings.

"You may come when I tell you, understand?"

"Yes, yes.  For God's sake, <i>please</i>"

Sherlock could feel his orgasm building with every thrust. He wrapped one hand around John and stroked him at the same pace Sherlock maintained with his hips.  When he reached the edge, he shouted "Come!" before burying himself deeply in the doctor, John's seed spilling over his hand as Sherlock convulsed within him.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“Why?” Sherlock asked several sleep filled hours later, running his fingers absent-mindedly through John’s hair, arm wrapped possessively around the doctor’s waist.

“Hmm?” John asked, nose brushing against the small patch of hair on Sherlock’s chest as he turned his head.

“You’re clearly comfortable with your dynamic, so why hide it?  Why deny what you are?”

“I may be comfortable with my dynamic, but very few people are.  If you tell someone you’re a switch, they automatically assume you’re just refusing to acknowledge you’re really a sub.  Everyone automatically assumes you’re not stable, not mature.  Switches have a lower hiring rate than any other dynamic.  I refused to let that happen to me, refused to lose any rights or opportunities because of who I was.  So I lied – I identified myself as a Dom.”

“And your personal life?”

“Doms assume I just have to be <i>shown</i> how to submit, have to be taught.  Subs sometimes think I won’t be able to take care of them properly.  And people often assume because I enjoy both Dominating and Submitting, I’ll do anything and anyone.”

Sherlock heard the unspoken words.  A Dom had once taken something too far, violated John’s trust to such an extreme level that he had denied half his dynamic on a personal level for several years.  His hands tightened around the doctor and he let out a small hiss of frustration.  That John, of all people had been mistreated this way...unforgivable.  He deserved better.  And Sherlock wanted to be the one to give it to him.

Sherlock rolled, gripping John’s wrists in his hands and hovering over the doctor.  “Let me make you <i>mine</i>,” he whispered, voice hoarse with the forceful combination of emotion and lust.  Sherlock bent his head to John’s neck, running his tongue over the love bite that had already formed.  He kissed and nipped his way along the tantalizing, frustratingly bare skin.  “Let me show the world that you are treasured and cared for.”

He moved his attention downwards, laving his tongue across John’s collar bones, growling out his words as he worked.  “I don’t share John. I never have.  Seeing you with Sarah...watching Lestrade look at you...it drove me mad.  Them reaching out and taking what I had convinced myself I could not have was nearly unbearable.  But now I know better.  Now I know I can have you, if only you would let me."

Sherlock kissed John, licking his way into the doctor's mouth and doing everything within his power to memorize the landscape.

"Wear my collar,” he begged at last.  "Say you will be mine."

John was silent for a long time, shutters falling over his usually expressive eyes.  "No," he said at last with a tone of finality.

Sherlock released the doctor's wrists, rolling off the other man and placing his feet on the floor, back to the doctor.  Of course not.  It was foolish of him to have hoped.

Sherlock flinched at the sudden warmth on his back, turning away from John.

"Not no to you.  No to the collar.  Sherlock, you have to understand, I've never done this.  Ever.  I can't make that kind of commitment without being sure this works," John said, wrapping his arms around him and resting his chin on Sherlock's shoulder.  "As long as the offer wasn’t collar or nothing…” 

Sherlock turned and silenced him with a searing kiss.  “Of course not.  I will gladly take whatever you are willing to give.”

“Bracelets,” John told him after a pause.  “I’ll do bracelets."

As soon as John drifted off again Sherlock had his phone out and was calling in favors.  It had only been a little under two hours when Mrs. Hudson crept in, jewelry box in hand.

“Knock-knock!” she called softly before coming in.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock acknowledged quietly.  “Thank you,” he told her, hand still carding through John’s hair.  “I apologize for the noise last night.” 

“This morning, love,” She replied with a wink as she passed him the box. 

Sherlock opened the box slowly, observing the arm-bands within.  Three braids of black leather, tethered together in four places with silver bars.  Everything seemed to be in order. 

“Those are lovely, Sherlock,” she commented.  “I’m sure John will like them.”

“I hope so,” Sherlock told her retreating back.

He fastened one around John’s right wrist with care before doing the same with his own, using the rest of the night to observe the way the matching bracelets contrasted with their skin.

When John woke up the next morning, he stared at the unfamiliar jewelry around his wrist for a long moment before rolling his eyes and getting up out of bed.  Sherlock would have been uncertain had he not seen the bright smile that broke over John’s face whenever he brushes his fingers against it or caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

John was in the process of filling out paperwork the day after Sherlock’s revelation when someone first commented on his bracelet.  Lestrade had been staring at it on and off throughout the entire meeting, clearly noting something was slightly off, but he didn’t fit all the pieces together until John and Sherlock gave their statements.

Lestrade’s eyes fixed on the pen grasped firmly in John’s hand, eyes widening as the last piece slid into place.

“You’re left handed,” he stated, surprise coloring his tone.

“Yeah?” John responded, confused by the reason for the statement of the obvious fact.

“The bracelet.  It’s on your right hand.”

John’s lips pressed together in a line, his eyes narrowed in irritation, and his posture became defensive.  “So it is.”

Sherlock had had enough of this ridiculous game.  It was time to put a stop to it before the Detective Inspector had a chance to ask any more inane questions that would further upset John.  He shrugged away from the wall, crossing the room in three long strides.  The consulting detective leaned over, resting his head atop John’s.  He wrapped his left arm possessively across the doctor’s chest and draped his right arm over John’s shoulder, entwining their fingers together in a way that clearly displayed their matching bracelets.  He glared at Lestrade, eyes cold as ice, shouting “MINE” as loud as he could with every expression and gesture. 

A quiet “oh” was all the flustered Detective Inspector could manage.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

“If I were to wake up tomorrow morning wearing a collar,” John muttered sleepily against Sherlock’s chest the night after their twelfth time together and their third day out in public as a couple, “I wouldn’t object.” 

Sherlock had one fastened around his neck within the hour.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

"You don't have to do this," John croaked, staring up at Sherlock through half-lidded eyes as he sprawled across the bed, his collar reflecting light onto the ceiling. "I've been strapped before, you know."

Sherlock let out a snarl, "As long as you wear my collar, no one save me is _ever_ taking a strap to you again. And if I have any say at all, that will be the rest of our lives, natural or otherwise."

"Otherwise?" John muttered, arching an eyebrow.

"I would never let you go without a fight," Sherlock replied, brushing back John's fringe and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Now sleep. I'll be back within the hour.

John murmured, but made no further protest. Sherlock carded a hand gently through his hair and kissed him again before leaving the flat.

Sherlock arrived at New Scotland Yard in a timely manner, making his way quickly up to Lestrade's office. He tapped roughly on the door, waiting until the Detective Inspector looked up from his paperwork.

"Let's get this over with," Sherlock snapped, rounding on his heel and stalking towards the Yard's discipline rooms.

It wasn't Sherlock's first time on one of the Yard's punishment crosses by any stretch of the imagination. 40 lashes for possession of cocaine was how he had met the detective inspector in the first place. Since entering the Yard's employ, he'd found himself up on the cross over a dozen times, typically for housebreaking or stealing evidence. There was always a crowd - everyone loved to see the Consulting Detective brought down a peg or two.

Today the room was nearly empty, only the minimum number of witnesses required for public punishment. Donovan, Dimmock, and a clerk of the court were the only ones waiting. Sherlock couldn't help but feel proud - the yard clearly respected John too much to humiliate him with a truly public punishment.

"What the hell are you doing here, Freak?" The Sergeant asked. "Come to watch Watson take the lashes for an ASBO we all know is your fault?"

"No," Sherlock calmly as he shed his coat and began working on the buttons of his shirt. "I'm here to receive punishment on his behalf."

Donovan looked visibly thrown. "You...you what?"

"You heard me perfectly the first time, Sally, and you know how I loathe to repeat myself."

The clerk (collared submissive, relationship for upwards of five years, satisfied with personal life and very unhappy with his professional one) studied Sherlock before flipping to a new form on his clipboard.

"On what grounds are you taking punishment in Dr. Watson's place?" he asked, pen poised over the paper.

"Dr. Watson wears my collar. It is my right as his Dom to bear any punishment he may incur," Sherlock responded, folding his shirt neatly and placing it on the table next to his scarf, coat and gloves, leaving the chain with the key to John's collar resting against his bare chest.

Dimmock was flabbergasted, stammering in the background. "But Doctor Watson...I thought...he's a Dom...he wasn't..."

"Do not presume to discuss matters you do not understand," Sherlock snapped. "You only sound ignorant and bigoted. Though it is the concern of no one other than the doctor and myself, John is a switch."

"May I ask when the partnership between yourself and Doctor Watson occurred?" the clerk asked, unfazed by the small altercation.

"The night after he received the Anti-social Behaviour Order. We donned matching bracelets at that time. He allowed me to place my collar on him three days later."

The room was silent save the scribbling of the clerk's pen. Dimmock was flustered, Donovan was flabbergasted, and Sherlock was glaring at both of them, just _daring_ them to comment. Lestrade walked in and glanced around, taking in the atmosphere of the room before standing unobtrusively by the rack of equipment.

"Doctor Watson was sentenced to one half-dozen lashes with a belt. You are willing to take this punishment on his behalf?"

"Yes," Sherlock muttered, growing bored of the tedious legal proceedings. "Can we please get on with it?"

Sherlock was secretly surprised at the low number. He'd had his own share of ASBO's and he'd never had less than a dozen lashes for any of them.

"That all appears to be in order. Sergeant Sally Donovan, DI Robert Dimmock, and I will bear witness, while DI Geoffrey Lestrade will act as disciplinarian. Lestrade, he's all yours now."

"Trousers off as well, then get on the cross," Lestrade said gruffly, pulling one of the thicker belts off the rack.

Sherlock did as he was ordered, placing his trousers next to his other garments before bracing himself against the cross.  
"Any day now, Lestrade," Sherlock drawled as he stared at the fluid-flecked wall. "I did make other plans for the day."

There was a huff of irritation from behind him. A few seconds later there was the soft whistle of something splitting the air, followed shortly by a sharp stinging sensation from Sherlock's back and an audible smack of leather against skin. He had to his best not to let out a surprised huff. Lestrade was usually far less forceful with his first blow.

On the third stroke of the belt Lestrade drew blood. At the end of the sixth strike, the DI stepped close to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

"You'd best not pull any of your usual shite with him, Sherlock. He's better than that. Better than _you_."

Sherlock rounded on him, invading the other Dom's personal space. "If you presume to think I am not aware of precisely what it is I have been gifted with, you are without even the modicum of intelligence I saw fit to credit you with. And if you _dare_ to comment on my partnership again, I will take my abilities to another DI, leaving you dry before I demand retribution."

He yanked on his trousers and pulled on his shirt without bothering to fasten the buttons. Sherlock refused medical treatment and ordered Dimmock and Lestrade to call if anything interesting presented itself. The consulting detective walked in the door of 221B at exactly 8:57 to find John waiting for him on the couch, medical kit open on the coffee table before him.

"Right," he said as soon as Sherlock crossed the threshold. "Let me take a look since I know you were too much of a stubborn git to get examined at the yard."

Sherlock let out a small rueful laugh before shedding his coat, walking over to the couch and pressing a kiss to the top of John's head before pulling off his shirt and tugging down his trousers. John rose from the sofa whilst gesturing to indicate Sherlock should take his place.

The consulting detective resting chest first on the indicated piece of furniture, pillowing his head on his arms and maneuvering his head so he could see John. The doctor examined Sherlock's back with an expression of concentration on his face before grabbing his antiseptic.

"You should be fine with just this and liquid bandages."

Sherlock let out a small hiss of pain as the cream came in contact with his skin.

"Sorry," John rumbled soothingly as he spread the cream gently over the small lacerations on Sherlock's back and upper thighs. "Thought it was a good idea to irritate Lestrade beforehand, did you?" he asked, a small, insincere smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

"The majority of it wasn't intentional," Sherlock responded, finding himself becoming aroused by the sight of John with Sherlock's collar around his neck combined with the tender touches of his hands at Sherlock's back.

"There," the doctor said some two minutes later. "Done. You know," he commented offhand as he began replacing his supplies, "I expected a lot more resistance from you."

"Nonsense. Only a fool argues with his doctor. I may be many things, but I am not a fool."

" _Your_ doctor?" John asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes," Sherlock said, sitting up and running a thumb across the collar at John's neck. " _My_ doctor,” he said, pulling John into a deep kiss. “ _Mine_."

John's pupils dilated and his breathing increased. "I rather like the sound of that," he confessed, standing up before placing his knees on either side of Sherlock's thighs, settling into his lap and pressing his groin against the detective's growing erection, sheathed only in a pair of cotton pants.

“Do you,” Sherlock drawled, slipping a hand under John’s shirt and running his fingers slowly along the doctor’s vertebra and thrusting up once against John’s growing arousal. “I must confess I do as well,” he purred, running his left hand up John’s thigh and across his groin. It continued upwards, ghosting over John’s nipple through his shirt, lingering at the collar on his neck before reaching his face. Sherlock stroked John’s cheek tenderly before pressing his index and middle fingers against John’s lips.

“Suck,” he ordered. “I know how much you love to use that talented tongue of yours.”

John opened his mouth and drew Sherlock’s fingers in, sucking deeply. Sherlock let his head fall back and allowed himself a slow exhale as John ran his tongue along the seam between the two digits before swirling it carefully along the pads of Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock maneuvered his hand from John’s back to his chest, tracing over John’s scar tissue. People often underestimated how sensitive hands could be, Sherlock mused, relishing the twin sensations of John’s hot, wet mouth and the silky-yet-rough texture of his warm scar. It only furthered his resolve that the majority of the population were idiots.

“Just like that, John. Suck my fingers like you’d suck my cock. My cock that’s all hard and wet because of you,” Sherlock said, thrusting up again, rubbing his erection against John’s. Sherlock’s doctor groaned around the detective’s fingers, beginning to bob his head up and down as rocked himself against Sherlock.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My cock in your hot, eager little mouth. My cum spilling salty down your throat.”

John nodded, groaning again as he sucked even harder on Sherlock’s fingers. His cheeks were stained red and his brow was damp with sweat. Sherlock couldn’t imagine anything more erotic.

“Clothes off, but you are not to stop sucking. I will punish you if your rhythm falters.”

John unbuttoned his shirt with unsteady fingers, exposing both Sherlock’s right hand and the overheated, flushed skin of John’s chest. He shed it quickly before struggling with the button on his jeans. A part of Sherlock was sad to see them go. The friction had been delicious. It was a very small part, though. What Sherlock had in mind would be much better.

“Up,” he ordered, helping John slide his trousers and pants down his hips and off his body with his free hand, still reveling in the sensations John’s tongue created as it ran over his fingers.

John sat naked in his lap, still sucking Sherlock’s fingers and gripping Sherlock’s shoulders as he rocked gently against his Dom at the same pace of his tongue’s attention to Sherlock’s hand.

“Pants,” Sherlock ordered. At John’s confused expression, he elaborated. “My pants. Off. _Now_.”

John got them as far down as he could and Sherlock used his free hand to work them the rest of the way off. Sherlock pulled his fingers out of John’s mouth, letting out a small chuckle at the expression on his doctor’s face. That did very interesting things to the way their bodies were connected, and Sherlock watched with rapt interest as John threw his head back, panting hard. The sight of Sherlock's golden collar resting against his tanned skin, bare of anything else...Sherlock's cock twitched at the detective let out a small growl of desire.

Sherlock grabbed John's wrists in his right hand and raised them above John's head, lifting his doctor so that he was crouching over the detective's lap.

Sherlock took his left hand, fingers still slicked with John's saliva and pushed them into John's anus, preparing John with his own spit. Sherlock reapplied saliva to his fingers, his own this time, pushing them back in before crooking his finger and brushing against John's prostate with expert precision.

" _Fuck_ " John moaned, thrusting down against Sherlock's fingers, his cock leaking precum.

"Louder," Sherlock ordered, scissoring his fingers. "I want to hear you beg."

"Sir, _please_ "

There were times Sherlock wanted to find John's old CO and kiss him on the mouth. He loved when john called him "sir". He loved even more that he hadn't had to tell him to. John had done it all on his own.

"Please what?" Sherlock asked, thrusting his fingers against John's prostate with unerring accuracy. "I can't give you what you want unless you tell me what it is."

"Please fuck me, sir," John said, staring down at Sherlock, lips twitching a little, perhaps a tad mischievous, but there was no disobedience or disrespect. Just need. "Please shove your big, hard cock up my arse. _Please_."

Sherlock let out a harsh breath. Christ. If John kept talking like that, he wasn't going to last much longer. Sherlock pulled his fingers out of his doctor and briefly released his hands to position his John, griping his hips and maneuvering until his member was press up against John's entrance and wet with his own precum. He recaptured John's wrists, crossing them over his doctor's chest and wrapping his large hand and long fingers as best he could around the area where they crossed.

"You can either fuck yourself on my cock the way you are now," Sherlock informed him, running his fingernails down John's back whilst nipping at his ear, "and you can come whenever you are ready without any stimulation save that from your prostate. Or I can lube you up, shove a plug in your arse for the rest of the day and then fuck you for hour later tonight, until you're too hoarse and over stimulated to even whimper before I let you come. It's your choice."

John groaned, arching his back against Sherlock's hand. “If it’s not too much trouble, sir,” he panted, staring down at Sherlock, “I find myself unable to choose. Would you be so indulgent as to allow me both?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Greedy today, are we?” Sherlock gasped out, leaning forward to plunder John’s mouth with his tongue.

Sherlock fumbled between the couch cushions, finally finding a tube of lubricant shoved there for these exact circumstances. He squirted the cool gel onto his hands before working two fingers back into John’s hole.

“I thought…you said…” John panted out before groaning shamelessly.

“I can have you tearing anything if I’m going to use you for hours later on, now can I? This,” Sherlock said, thrusting his fingers once before removing them entirely, “is my hole, and I plan on taking good care of it.” Sherlock brushed John’s fringe out of his eyes before running his thumb down across John’s swollen lips. “I take good care of what is mine,” he whispered before running his tongue along the doctor’s collar bone. “And you are precious and treasured above all other possessions, my John,” he murmured against his submissive’s ear before running his tongue along the sensitive shell and nipping at the lobe.

John’s response was to slam himself down on Sherlock, sheathing his Dom’s length entirely. Sherlock swore and bucked his hips involuntarily while John threw back his head and let out a cry at the pleasurable pain.

“Fuck!” John shouted as he repeated the action, head thrown back, golden collar gleaming, panting, an expression of extreme ecstasy on his face.

It took every iota of Sherlock’s not insignificant self-control to remain still as John rode himself to completion. As John clenched around him and spurted cum onto the detective’s chest, Sherlock dug his fingernails into the soft skin at John’s wrists and hip, biting roughly on his lip to stave off his own orgasm.

A limp, panting John looked down at Sherlock through half-lidded eyes, concern radiating off him. “You didn’t…”

Sherlock silenced him with a kiss and a quick slap to his rear. “I gave you permission to beg, not to speak. I didn’t come in your ass,” he explained, pulling John’s wrists towards him, “because I plan on coming in your mouth.” Sherlock bit down on the tender skin where John’s blue veins were visible, sucking until he was certain he had left behind a love bite. “Now, on your knees. And careful of the coffee table – I want a blank canvas for our work later tonight.

John eased himself off Sherlock’s still achingly hard cock. It was all Sherlock could do not to groan in frustration. His doctor slid off Sherlock’s lap with relative ease, still relaxed and languid from his orgasm, the consequences of which were still pooled on Sherlock’s chest and stomach.

“Run your tongue along the bottom of the shaft,” Sherlock ordered, watching as John angled his head to obey, reveling in the sudden wet heat that traversed along his member. John let out a please sound as he swallowed the lube and precum he’d managed to gather on his tongue. Sherlock made a mental note that strawberry flavored products had met with John’s approval, as he had hypothesized.

“Massage my scrotum and flick your tongue over the frenulum,” Sherlock said, lacing his fingers through John’s hair. His doctor complied, and Sherlock swore. “Good John. You’re so good...so perfect. And _mine_.” Sherlock stared down at his doctor, taking in his damp hair, his flushed and eager face, light from the window making his collar shine. Sherlock moved one hand down to trace over the intricate metal work that showed all the world that John was cared for and protected. “ _All mine._ ”

John took initiative, pressing the tip of his tongue into Sherlock’s meatus. The detective’s hips bucked and he swore. He could feel John’s smile against his cock when his doctor pulled back.

Sherlock used his grip on John’s hair to guide the doctor onto his cock. “Take it all,” Sherlock ordered breathlessly. “I want your nose buried in my pubic hair and my cock buried in your throat when I come.”

When John swallowed Sherlock down, taking his Dom’s cock deep in his throat, it was a only a matter of three thrusts before Sherlock was spilling down John’s throat, shouting his sub’s name. His doctor swallowed every drop.

“Now,” Sherlock said languidly, tugging John up gently before kissing him thoroughly, enjoying the taste of himself combined with the flavor that was pure _John_ , “clean up the mess you made,” he ordered, running a finger through the cum on his chest, licking it off while indicating the pool on his chest with a slight nod. “And then we’ll see about that plug.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

John was, Sherlock had found, the perfect cure for boredom. The list of things he wanted to do to his sub grew exponentially on a daily basis. He needed John, not just on a physical level, but on a psychological one as well. He did his best thinking when his doctor was there, John always helping to cut through all the excess noise in Sherlock’s head to the heart of the matter.

Sherlock even found merely John’s physical presence conducive to thought, and he found himself perfectly content to sit out the couch for hours, John’s head cushioned in his lap, his hands stroking through the older man’s hair as he worked his way through a challenging puzzle.

When John wasn’t with him, as was the case in Minsk, at least 30% of Sherlock’s mental faculties were dedicated to the man, alternating between fear for his safety, plans for their future, and reminiscences of their past. Every action was weighed carefully against John’s possible responses and its effect on John’s happiness before it was undertaken.

Considering all the facts at his disposal, Sherlock concluded he was dangerously close to falling in love with his army-doctor, assuming he hadn’t done so already. Given he could no longer imagine a time at any point in the future where he could bare to be without the man, the latter seemed more likely. Sherlock, quite frankly, was terrified.

Army-doctor. Killer and healer. Switch. Dom and Sub – John was a perfectly balanced, harmonious blending of opposites and contradictions. As much as he might wish otherwise, Sherlock could not satisfy John’s dynamic need, not completely. John filled every hole in Sherlock’s life, met all his wants and needs, including those he’d been unaware of. Sherlock lived in fear that one day John’s unfulfilled dynamic needs would grow too great and he would request Sherlock remove his collar.

Life without John had already become unthinkable. He would do whatever was in his power to keep his doctor happy. John would tell him if he became dissatisfied with their relationship, wouldn’t he?

John was clearly his own man outside of Sherlock – the altercation today had proved that beyond a doubt. It was something the detective admired about him. He abhorred subs with slave-like and pet mentalities for the long term. It all grew so dull so quickly.

Sherlock watched John go from his position at the curtains, watching with something akin to chagrin as the doctor pops his collar as he strolls away. Sherlock would like to think it is because John is beginning to emulate his habits, or that the wind is sever enough to warrant it, but he knows better. John is still subconsciously uncomfortable with wearing a collar, and does whatever he can to hide it when he leaves the flat.

Mrs. Hudson overheard his unhappy sigh, and Sherlock plays it off as boredom – the truth, really. Without John, the ennui is closing in fast.

The explosion moments latter shatters not only the windows, but Sherlock’s sense of despair as well. One thing is for certain, he thought as he pulls himself up off the floor, a small smile on his face – he’s not bored now. Not by a long shot.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Mycroft’s visit is not unexpected by any means. In the wake of the gas leak across the street, and more importantly, Sherlock’s custom order of a collar and the subsequent placing of the collar around John’s neck.

Mycroft strolls in announced, as always, but Sherlock has no trouble recognizing his distinctive tread on the stairs.

“You really should lock this door, Sherlock. You never know what undesirable sort might walk in,” Mycroft drawled, settling himself on John’s chair, crossing his legs primly.

“I know _exactly_ the undesirable sort that might walk in,” Sherlock hissed, grabbing his violin to use as a shield between himself and unwanted interactions with his brother. “A lock would not serve as any sort of detriment,” he said, glaring at Mycroft, “merely a challenge.”

“I must confess, Sherlock. I find myself quite surprised at this most recent turn of events. When I met the doctor, I never expected this outcome. He is one of the most self-assured, commanding Doms I have ever seen. How on earth did you manage to coerce him into the collar? ”

“With my mouth. I’ve been told I have a silver tongue,” Sherlock told him, purposefully trying to be as base and crude as possible to drive Mycroft away from the line of questioning.

“And how long to you anticipate this arrangement lasting?” Mycroft asked, face perfectly blank save one arched eyebrow.

Sherlock didn’t respond, but given Mycroft’s infinitesimal change in breathing and surprised “Ah” his expression has even away enough for Mycroft to come to the proper conclusion.

“Does the doctor know your feelings on the matter?” he asked at length.

Sherlock plucked one of his strings harshly, tuning his violin and attempting to tune out his brother as well.

“I know you have relatively little experience in this area, but allow me to reassure you that silence will do nothing to resolve your fears.”

“I will say or not say anything that he requires of me to keep him. I see no point in burdening him with these sentiments when they may not serve my overarching goals and may have the opposite effect. Now, was there something you needed in particular? Or are you just here to attempt to irritate me to death?”

“There is a…delicate matter of some importance I would prefer your personal handling on.”

There were footsteps running up the stairs, and Sherlock watched with avid interest as his doctor finally breached the doorway, running his eyes over him quickly. Same clothes he’d left in the night before. Judging by the creases in his clothing, his stiff neck, and his slightly awkward gait as he came into the room it was obvious how he had spent the night.

“How was the sofa?” Had he been less intimate with every nuance of John’s body, he might have said li lo, but Sherlock knew better.

“How did you…never mind. Are you alright?” John asks, his eyes radiating fear and concern.

So mesmerized was Sherlock by the emotions his sub was displaying that he nearly forgot a response was expected. The result was short and clipped.

“Me? Yeah, fine. Gas leak, apparently.” He turned back to Mycroft. “I can’t,” he said, gesturing John over.

“This is far more important than your usual trivia,” Mycroft told him, doing an admirable job of ignoring John as perched himself on the arm of Sherlock’s chair and Sherlock traced his fingers in a manner that would seem absent-minded on his doctor’s thigh.

Sherlock returned to tuning his violin, exchanging perfunctory insults and excuses as he waited for Mycroft to leave the papers as was his habit. One statement was so outrageous he couldn’t help but respond.

“I could always order you,” Mycroft remarked, twirling his umbrella.

Sherlock scoffed. Mycroft might have been the British government, but no Dom had ever been able to top Sherlock. He doubted his submissive brother could pull it off. “I’d like to see you try,” he said, bringing the bow up to his violin.

Mycroft excused himself, rising to his feet. John, proper, polite Englishman that he was, rose to bid him farewell, accepting the manila folder he offered. “Goodbye, John. I’ll be seeing you _very_ soon.”

Sherlock growled at his brother, bowing in the most annoying manner possible to drive him from the room. As soon as he was gone, Sherlock stood, placed the violin in the case, and quickly brought the bow down on John’s arse.

“Oy!” the doctor exclaimed.

“Never touch or speak to my brother again without my permission,” Sherlock said, completely serious. “Where did you spend the night?” he inquired.

“Mike’s,” John informed him.

“Acceptable,” Sherlock allowed.

“Was that…did you just smack me with your violin bow?” John asked.

“You needed to be disciplined. It was what I had on hand. Problem?”

“No,” John said slowly. “You know…I’m sure there are other things over the past few days I’ve done that deserve a good swatting.”

Sherlock grinned, smacking the bow against his palm. “Are you, now?

“Oh yeah,” John said, leaning over and bracing himself on the desk while Sherlock stalked up behind him. “Loads. Calling you ‘spectacularly ignorant’, for one.”

Unfortunately, that was the moment Lestrade finally chose to ring and ask for Sherlock’s assistance.

“Another time, perhaps,” Sherlock said resignedly, pulling John gently upright. “Lestrade has a case for us.”

“Us?” John asked, arching an eyebrow, no doubt thinking back to the argument from the night before that had driven him from the flat.

“I’d be lost without my blogger,” Sherlock said, being purposefully glib to hide the depth of emotions behind the words.  
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-  
Sherlock’s careful study of the trainers was interrupted when Molly, the sub from the morgue, entered bearing coffee and advice. She was a welcome distraction. An extra set of eyes never goes amiss.

The Dom who follows her, “Jim,” as he introduces himself, is _not_. An extra set of eyes _does_ go amiss – if they are directed at his doctor. He eyes John with far too much interest for Sherlock’s liking.

“Jim, this is Sherlock. And…I’m sorry,” Molly says, staring at John sheepishly.

“John Watson,” Sherlock bites off, keeping his eyes firmly on the other Dom who is now walking towards his John.

“John,” the other man practically purrs, walking a semi-circle around the doctor who has his back to a wall and arms crossed defensively over his chest. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share?” he asks, looking at Sherlock with raised eyebrows.

“You suppose correctly,” Sherlock forces out, hands clenching involuntarily.

“Pity,” Jim-from-IT says, brushing John’s now shaggy hair behind his ear and trailing his fingers along his cheek before cupping his chin. “We could have had such fun together.”

To both John’s surprise and Sherlock’s own, it the consulting detective who pins the man to a nearby wall, grip on the wrist he used to touch John firm enough that it would take very little leverage to snap the bones like twigs.

“I suggest,” Sherlock hissed, invading the other Dom’s personal space, “that you leave and do not come back, in the fairly high probability that I change my mind about breaking your wrist.”

The detective backed of briefly only to shove the other Dom against the wall once in a more concrete warning. Jim just chuckles.

“Alright. I’m off. But if you change your mind,” he says, pulling a business card out of a pocket and holding it out, “here’s my number.” When Sherlock makes no move to take it, he simply places it next to the microscope before strolling out.

Sherlock was sure he must be mistaken, but as the other Dom exits, he thought he spied a wide smile of triumph crossing his features.  
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-  
John, for all that he claimed he had a short temper, frequently exhibited the patience of a saint. Sherlock was surprised that he didn’t lose his temper at yarder’s behavior sooner. It was at Ian Munkford’s rental car that he finally lost his grip on his control.

“Right,” he declared after another of Donovan’s less than subtle barbs about being in a relationship with Sherlock. “Enough. I,” he said, raising his voice and turning so he could be heard by the entire yard, “am subbing for Sherlock Holmes. Not only am I subbing for him, I am _wearing his collar_. From what I’ve been able to gather, about two-thirds of you wish you were in my place, and the rest wish you were in his. To the latter, there is a reason I top the majority of the time. You _really_ couldn’t handle me. To the former, you can barely stand to work with the man. What makes you think could possibly stand him, let alone satisfy him, in any other context?”

John was silent for a few moments before continuing. “Now, if you have any further questions regarding our relationship and your possible involvement in it, you can direct them to my Dom. Though I would personally recommend you _mind your own business_.”

At this last phrase, infused with the authority of a Dom, every man on the scene, save one, found their gaze inexplicably drawn to their shoes. John spun on his heal before walking over to where Sherlock waited. “May we go? I’ve had my fill of stupidity and judgment for the day.”

“Certainly. Janus cars is where we will discover our next clue, I believe.”  
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-  
It took Sherlock much longer to work out why John had been so upset about Sherlock’s apparently emotionlessness than it should have. But that had really been par for the course with the entire fiasco with the painting.

“Oh!” he exclaimed suddenly.

“What?” John asked from his position on Sherlock’s lap.

“You were upset earlier,” Sherlock remarked, staring down at his doctor. “Disappointed that I didn’t care. Not because I didn’t care about the strangers – that would not have elicited nearly as strong a reaction. You were afraid I don’t care about _you_.”

John turned away from his gaze, cheeks coloring.

“John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock said fondly, “ _My John_.” He grasped his doctor’s chin with great care, turning John’s face so he could stare into those impossibly guileless blue-green eyes. “You see, but you do not observe. If you did, you would know I care for you more than I care for anything or anyone else on this wretchedly dull planet.” He pressed his lips tenderly to his doctor’s forehead. “I love you, John,” Sherlock remarked, moving his lips to his doctor’s. “Quite ridiculously. More than I can quantify. Given that I have very little experience with the softer emotions and that I am now almost certain I could not live without you, this fact terrifies me. But it remains a fact, nonetheless.”

John shifted, crawling fully into Sherlock’s lap, melting himself against his Dom as he licked his way into Sherlock’s mind. “I love you too, you know. I never said anything because I thought you’d already deduced it. I’ve loved you…god, I don’t even know how long.”

Sherlock felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. “I…I hadn’t deduced that, no.”

“Idiot,” John remarked, rubbing his nose along Sherlock’s neck. “Though after that whole fiasco with my dynamic, I should have known.”

Sherlock turned his head and ducked, capturing John’s lips in a kiss. “Your dynamic. Are you unhappy?” he asked at length, voicing the fears that had haunted him for weeks.

“Do I seem unhappy?” John asked, pressing himself even closer so Sherlock could feel his growing arousal.

“In the long term…I know you have needs I cannot meet,” Sherlock admitted reluctantly, averting his eyes.

“When that happens, I’ll let you know,” John whispered, kissing along Sherlock’s collarbones. “And you can collar me a pretty sub and watch me Dom the fuck out of him, knowing that I’m showing off for you.” Sherlock wasn’t sure what noise exactly escaped his throat at that thought, but John’s smile turned wicked.

“Now, take me to bed. I recall a promise regarding a certain violin bow that was never fulfilled.”  
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The night the Bruce-Partington Plans had been recovered, Sherlock insured John was sound asleep before pressing a kiss to his love’s temple and slipping out of bed. He issued an invitation on his website, grabbed his gun, and then proceeded to take the most circuitous route possible to the pool. He arrived two minutes early, excitement thrumming through his veins. Finally he would meet the man behind the players, the game-master. The first remotely challenging adversary Sherlock had ever faced, someone he would be willing to consider his equal.

Sherlock picked the lock easily, making his way into the building, excitement growing with every step. Almost. Any minute now.

The door to the pool closed behind him with a dramatic clang Sherlock found very suited to both the situation and the atmosphere.

“I thought,” Sherlock called to the cavernous room, spinning in slow circles in an attempt to locate the mastermind “after all the flirting and dancing, it was time we met one another properly.”

There was another sharp clang and Sherlock turned only to be struck dumb.

“Sorry I’m late,” John said, the stilted speech of someone parroting the words of another. “I just thought I’d collect something you’d forgotten,”

Sherlock froze in horror. No. _No_

“This is a turn up, isn’t it Sherlock? Bet you never saw this coming.”

He hadn’t. Not even in his most severe nightmares had he ever pictured this. The idea was simply _unthinkable_. But he should have.

Sherlock’s eyes raced over John’s form, making rapid-fire deductions as he did. No bruises or blood – John had been drugged then. He was wearing a scarf Sherlock didn’t recognize around his neck, had an earpiece shoved in his ear, and had a sniper site hovering just above his heart.

“What,” John said slowly, unwinding the unfamiliar scarf around his neck, “would you like me to make him say next?”

Sherlock staggered as if struck. He knew Moriarty was clever. He knew he was amoral, at least by society's standards. What he hadn't understood was how unspeakably _cruel_ he was.

His collar. Moriarty had attached the bomb to _John's collar_. The message could not have been clearer; Because he is yours, because you care, because of _you _\-- that is why he is in danger. As Sherlock watched, the red laser migrated slowly up John’s chest until it rested sinisterly on one of the bricks of Semtex entirely too close to everything Sherlock held dear.__

__John here, John at risk, was abhorrent beyond comprehension. That the danger had taken this form... Sherlock vibrated with barely repressed rage and terror._ _

__"He's very well behaved, with the proper motivation," Moriarty said using John's voice._ _

__John's voice broke on the word motivation, and it was all Sherlock could do to keep his steps towards his switch slow and even, trying to masquerade them as casual meanderings._ _

__"Stop it," Sherlock hissed, unable to refrain from reacting in some form. It was all he could do to continue to maintain his facade of calm connectedness._ _

__Moriarty didn't need to know exactly how frayed Sherlock was, how furious, how helpless. He didn't need to know he had the detective's Achilles heel. If Moriarty didn't know how truly valuable Sherlock's doctor was, he might be able to keep him safe._ _

__"Nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop your John, too. Stop him breathing."_ _

___"Where are you?'_ Sherlock roared, turning so he could search all of the room, looking for even a glimpse of the man he would tear to pieces with his bare hands._ _

__"I gave you my number," a voice called in a mocking, lyrical tone. "I thought you might call."_ _

__" _You_ " Sherlock hissed at the man who walked into sight, recognizing him at once. _ _

__He was better dressed now. Cleaner, sharper -- more lethal. But he was still undeniably the Dom from the morgue. The one who had _touched_ John. _ _

__Oh. Of course. A move. Touching his collared submissive had been a carefully calculated move to determine Sherlock's level of attachment, to ascertain if this would be an effective finale. A move Sherlock had played right into._ _

__"Me," he responded, smirking._ _

__Sherlock pulled John's gun out of his pocket, aiming is squarely between the man's eyes. It was an empty gesture, and the man knew it. Everyone was well aware of who held the power here. As long as there was a sniper site steady on the explosives strapped to John's neck, both the doctor and Sherlock were rendered helpless._ _

__The man rolled his eyes, coming to a stop. Not because of the gun, but because he wanted to. "James Moriarty," he said, introducing himself. "Hi!"_ _

__Sherlock felt his eyes drawn to John. It had been a vain, foolish hope, he knew that. It didn't stop his stomach from dropping even lower as he eyed the damnable dot still hovering over the explosives at John's throat. He watched with horrified fascination as John's nervous swallow caused the collar to shift, leaving the dot hovering on his bare skin for a moment._ _

__"Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hand's dirty."_ _

__Moriarty took in Sherlock's posture and expression and grinned, a predatory smile spreading across his face. He took slow, lazy steps forward until he was behind John, their bodies separated by scant centimeters._ _

__"Although I am more than willing to make an exception for you and your pretty doctor." Moriarty brought a hand up, brushing along John's neck before hooking a finger under his collar, tugging on it hard enough to ensure John had difficulty breathing._ _

__"You have excellent taste, Sherlock. Though I must confess I like more ornaments a bit more dangerous," he brushed a thumb over the Semtex, "and my toys a bit more broken."_ _

__Moriarty shoved his knee with vicious accuracy into John's left leg, which had been shaking since his entrance. He let out a low chuckle as the leg buckled and Sherlock let out an involuntary snarl._ _

__Moriarty's laugh was cut off sharply as John gripped his wrist, using the momentum of the stumble to maneuver the psychopath between the sniper and himself._ _

__"Sherlock, _RUN_!" John shouted, infusing his voice will all the authority and dominance he could muster._ _

__Sherlock half turned, taking one step away from the drama unfolding before him before he realized what he was doing. He turned back, staring at John astounded. He had _never_ been topped by anyone, especially unintentionally. _ _

__Moriarty laughed, seemingly unfazed by John's firm grip around his neck. "Are you sure you two haven't gotten who wears the collar wrong?"_ _

__John jerked the arm around Moriarty's neck sharply, cutting off his air. "If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."_ _

__Moriarty ignored John, staring straight at Sherlock, limp and languid in the doctor's grip. Not the stillness of submission, but of a clever creature playing dead before it struck with renewed ferocity. "I can see why you like him. people do get so sentimental about their pets -- So touchingly loyal. He's not that well trained, though, is he?"_ _

__Sherlock growled. John was _not_ a pet. He was beyond that, above it. He was a partner, a balance. Someone whose submission was a gift to be earned, even more apparent after the events that just transpired. Someone Sherlock would fight for every day for as long as he was allowed to prove that he would try to be worthy of John's trust. To call John Sherlock's pet was to show a horrendous misconception regarding the fundamental nature of their relationship and who John was._ _

__Sherlock grasped at the thread of hope -- Moriarty had underestimated John._ _

__"You want me to help you teach him?" Moriarty asked Sherlock, smiling again. "Because, you see Johnny, you've rather shown your hand there."_ _

__John's gaze moved to Sherlock before he froze. His stare made the location of the second site simple - somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock's cranium._ _

__"Don't" Sherlock ordered, seeing clear as day what his John intended._ _

__John ignored him, releasing Moriarty and holding his hands up in surrender as he retreated several steps._ _

__"Good boy," Moriarty commended, running a hand through John's hair quickly. "We'll make a proper sub out of you yet."_ _

__Sherlock was practically foaming at the mouth, fists clenched so tightly he thought he was at risk of drawing his own blood. " _What do you want?_ " he snarled, drawing Moriarty's attention away from _his_ John._ _

__"Just here to deliver a friendly warning, my dear," Moriarty said, smiling widely as he ambled away from John and towards Sherlock. "Back off," he hissed, all traces of humor vanishing._ _

__The gun was aimed directly between Moriarty’s mad, empty eyes. All it would take was the small contraction of one muscle and the man who put in peril everything Sherlock held dear would be dead. He couldn’t be a threat from beyond the grave._ _

__“Don’t disappoint me, Sherlock. We both know what happens if you pull that trigger. Are a few fleeting moments of satisfaction worth the structural damage that bomb will cause as it blows of your doctor’s head? I mean, the building might collapse?”_ _

__The smile he gave Sherlock was wicked – all teeth and filled with malice._ _

__Sherlock just glared at him, allowing his body to convey what he couldn't trust himself to say._ _

__Moriarty sighed. "Do you know what happens to you, Sherlock? If you don't leave me alone?"_ _

__“Let me guess. I get killed?” Sherlock spat scathingly, fighting to keep himself in check._ _

__“Kill you? No. No,” he responded, shaking his head slowly as he clicked his tongue like he was scolding a thick child. “If you don’t stop prying, I will _burn_ you.”_ _

___No_._ _

__“I will burn the _heart_ out of you.”_ _

__Sherlock’s tenuous control over his facial muscles snapped. He had no idea what expression eventually settled over his visage, but Moriarty laughed._ _

__“Ciao, Sherlock Holmes,” he said, smirking at the consulting detective._ _

__At the door, he turned and blew a kiss to John._ _

__“I will _stop_ you,” Sherlock snarled. _The way you ‘stopped’ Carl Powers. Like you threatened to stop John. **My John**_._ _

__“No you won’t!” Moriarty chirped back from the hallway, lyrical voice echoing off the water and the walls._ _

__Sherlock’s head jerked around to John as soon as the door closed, gaze darting from head to toe in search of the laser sniper site. Finding none, he dropped the gun carelessly on the tile floor before sprinting to John’s side. He rested his forehead against John’s for a moment that was far too short before pulling away reluctantly. He reached with trembling fingers for the chain that hung around his neck._ _

__“I have to…” he forced out, pulling the chain over his head and letting the key rest in his shaky palm._ _

__“I know,” John whispered, closing his eyes in defeat._ _

__As Sherlock fit the key into the lock at John’s collar with unsteady hands, he found himself reluctantly admiring Moriarty’s sadistic genius. There could be no torture worse than removing your own collar from your traumatized bottom for his own safety, both of you in desperate need of the reminder it provided of possession and commitment._ _

__There was a small click, and Sherlock was momentarily paralyzed with terror. Because wouldn’t that be _brilliant_? Forcing Sherlock to destroy the man he loved while trying to save him?_ _

__Apparently Moriarty hadn’t been that vicious. Not this time. But he could have been. The words echoed back to Sherlock through his memory – “ _A warning_ ”_ _

__Sherlock removed the collar with utmost care, praying to every deity he could think of that he wouldn’t accidentally trigger the incendiary device. Had he been capable of rational thought, Sherlock would have waited for the bomb squad, but _Get it away. Get it far away from John. Now._ was the mantra running through his head._ _

__As soon as the circle of gold was free, Sherlock flung it vehemently into the pool before spinning around and wrapping John in his embrace. Sherlock steadied the doctor as his legs threatened to cease supporting him, holding him close to try and stop the trembling though he didn’t know who it came from._ _

__“Alright?” Sherlock asked between frantic kisses. He pulled back suddenly, alarmed, as he tasted salt. “ _Are you alright?_ ” he demanded as he began a through examination._ _

__“Yeah. Yeah. Sherlock, _Sherlock_. I’m fine. It was just…Christ. Just one more awful thing, you know?”_ _

__“Yes,” Sherlock murmured, burying his face in the doctor’s hair as John burrowed into the crook between his shoulder and neck, running a hand soothingly along his doctor’s back under his shirt. “ I know,” he responded, allowing a few tears of his own to fall into the sandy blonde hair._ _

__Sherlock knew other facts as well. He would never stop hunting Moriarty, not after this. He would find the man. Soon. And when he did, he would flay him alive and enjoy every moment of it._ _

__But for now, John was here, safe in his arms. And that was more than enough._ _


End file.
